


Christmissed Connections

by Scrunchles



Series: Christmas 2017 [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Punk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: Jamison and Mako meet again and again and again but nothing ever sticks.  Until it does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Woden's Skadi as well as the rest of my patrons for all their wonderful support.
> 
> Jamie is modeled after [stitchedpig's](http://stitchedpig.tumblr.com/) punk Jamie. Go give him all of the love for his amazing character design.
> 
> All of the prompts used for this series is going to be in the end notes.

**12/25/2015 3:13 AM**

He’s been waiting for damn near an hour.  Jamie sits with his hand clapped over his head, a towel soaking up the blood and keeping it (mostly) off of his leather jacket.  The wound had started out pouring, and he thinks it should have really stopped by now, but every time he tries to remove the rag, the bleeding starts up again.  He probably should have just stayed at home to drink for Christmas Eve, but instead, he had chosen to go out, tear up the town like he had when he was younger.

When he was younger, he had four good limbs and knew how to fucking dodge a half-full bottle of whiskey.

The room is damn near packed, but he looks shitty enough that he has an empty seat on either side of him.  His black leather jacket is the only practical piece of clothing he has on.  His shirt is a thin, stained camisole and he has ragged camo pants on with the right leg cut off at the knee.  Some people try to hide their damage, but Jamie wears his proudly.  A bright orange and yellow prosthetic peg leg juts out to the side and past the invisible line where most polite people keep their limbs.  There are some people who have decided to stand rather than sit beside the sour-faced punk with a blood soaked rag held to his skull.  Fine with him.  Fuck them.

Jamie is so deep in his brooding (and more than a little lightheaded) that he doesn’t notice the shadow looming over him until a boot nudges his prosthesis.

“Fuck off,” he says, sneering until he looks up at the largest man he has ever fucking seen in his life.  He hopes he doesn’t look surprised, but knows his face is too expressive.  The large man nudges him again.  Jamie recovers his wits and his sluggish mind starts to take in the rest of the man besides his size and he lets out a laugh that makes his own head pound.  “Nice beard there, Santa,” Jamie says.

The man is dressed in a bright red coat and pants with a thick black belt around his massive stomach.  His hair is a light, nearly white, gray that contrasts with his dark skin.  He doesn’t seem old enough to be totally gray, from what Jamie can see around the beard, but the strange color seems like it fits him.  Not at all like Jamie’s bright red, orange and yellow mohawk.  

“Move.” Is the only thing the man says to him.

Jamie wrinkles his nose and spreads his legs farther apart, making a point to stretch his right arm out over the back of the chair the man wants to sit in.  Usually one look at the gnarly scar accented by tattooed flames sends people shuffling off.

The giant Santa stares at him for less than a second before he grabs Jamie by the front of his jacket and forcibly moves him from the chair flanked by two empties to the vacant chair to his left.

Jamie’s bloody rag hits the floor as he struggles, his only hand grabbing the Santa’s sleeve as he curses and kicks out with both legs, hits him with his stump. The white fur trimmed cuff of the Santa suit has blood smeared on it by the time Jamie is deposited and there are drips all over the seats, but the Santa sits down on them anyway and releases Jamie’s jacket.

Blood drips down Jamie’s scalp and into his face.  His head is pounding too hard to focus on his priorities.  Like getting his rag back to stem the flow of blood or not picking a fight with the man who just moved him like he was an annoying kitten.

“Hey, I’m  _ bleeding _ ,” he says, like that gives him the right to take up three seats.

“You and everyone else in here,” Santa says gruffly.  “Shut up and stop gushing everywhere.”  He leans down, picks up Jamie’s rag and tries to hand it back to him.

Jamie snatches it away from him and tosses it back on the floor.  “Don’t look like you are.”

Santa looks like he’s going to break Jamie in half, then he turns to face forward and settles back in his chairs.

Jamie blinks several times owlishly, then presses his palm to his bleeding head and slumps in his chair.

Santa sighs after a few minutes of sitting silently beside Jamie and his jiggling, creaking prosthetic.  Jamie expects him to tell him to knock it off and is fully prepared to ramp up the leg’s movement when Santa leans forward again, wincing as he does so, and picks the rag back up.  He folds it so that one of the cleaner patches is accessible, then presses it to Jamie’s head until he finally pulls his hand back from doggedly trying to stem the blood with his palm alone.

“Head wounds bleed like a bitch,” Jamie says, definitely not trying to make nice.

Santa grunts, but keeps staring ahead at the wall, stony and not at all jolly.

Before Jamie can ask what he’s in for, a nurse calls his name.

Jamie slowly stands and hobbles after her, following her back to one of the treatment rooms.

“Merry fucking Christmas to me,” Jamie grumbles, and he swears he hears the Santa chuckle behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character A and Character B meet in the ER on Christmas Eve.


	2. Chapter 2

**12/25/2016 10:00 PM**

The alcohol burns as it goes down.  The Christmas music plays, tinny and annoying on ancient speakers, and Jamison Fawkes’s heart breaks with every word of “Last Christmas.”

He has to motion the bartender over to get a refill.  The man looks like he checked out of the job a decade ago.  His Santa getup is cute but sloppy.  He doesn’t even have a beard!  He looks the part for “Santa gets fired and starts working at a bar to make ends meet.”  If Santa was in his forties and was less holly jolly and more done with the world.

“You’re… a really bad bartender,” Jamie tells the man, once he’s been topped off.

The man doesn’t look offended, just amused.  “If I was a bad bartender, I’d be watering down your drinks,” he points out.

“That’s not bad bartending, that’s just… that’s just good business!” Jamie protests, taking a sip of his liquor.  The whiskey makes his tongue go numb; it makes him giggle.  His mind is distracted until the chorus starts in and he thinks he can feel the lime green ring in his eyebrow burning like ice.  He hadn’t taken it out since he got it for christmas last year-- a piece of  _ him _ always with him.  He knows he can’t feel it.  Knows it’s nothing but his imagination and vicious dramatization.  He wants to take it out, but that takes dexterity and he his only hand is wrapped around a drink right now.  It was just a bad memory now.  A sad, bittersweet memory that clashed with his aesthetic.  He had been trying to convince him to change his hair from his bright orange umber to some sort of green bullshit too.  He said if he did that, he would have to repaint his peg leg— he had still insisted.  Maybe if he had, he would have stayed… He quaffs the liquor and chokes down a sob that he convinces himself is the kick of the drink and not his heart breaking all over again under the weight of “if.”

When the bartender tops him off without him even asking this time, Jamie feels warm tears suddenly slide down his cheeks.  He sniffs and wipes at them, then grabs Santa’s hand and holds it firmly when the large man tries to pull away. 

“I’m sorry I called you a bad barkeep!”

The man stares at him, his thick lips half open in what might be surprise or an effort to say something.  Whichever it was, Jamie keeps going.

“You’re a good lad,” Jamie wails, flopping over the bar and letting Santa go to stretch his arms out pathetically, as if they’re going to hug this out. Santa takes a step back.  “A good lad who didn’t deserve to get his heart ripped out.  And on Christmas Day!”

Jamison starts sobbing and withdraws his arms to cradle his head.

A glass taps the bar next to his ear once he’s cried himself out and been reduced to hiccuping and sniffling.  He doesn’t feel better, he just feels shitty.  He needs another drink. Jamie looks up to see a glass of clear liquid.

Tequila?  He isn’t much for mixing liquors, but Santa probably knows what’s best for him right now --

Jamie spits the water out as soon as he realizes that no, his tongue isn’t dead, it’s just that what was in his mouth is tasteless and  _ stupid. _

_ “What the fuck _ ?!” Jamie bleats pathetically.  

“Drink it.  And eat some peanuts,” Santa says firmly.

Jamie glowers and slides the water away from him pointedly.  “Yer not me mum, or me girlfriend,” he slurs, pointing his finger at Santa.  It keeps moving from side to side— altogether, it’s not very threatening.

“Unless… unless you wanna be,” He tacks on, frowning to himself.  Did he want to date Santa?  And one that appeared to not have any of the associated prestige of Kris Kringle.  Sure his last significant other had been a drug dealer with an obsession with green, but if he was going to date a Santa didn’t he want a  _ decent _ Santa?

Wait.

“You’re not… you weren’t a real Santa, right?” He asks, squinting his eyes and trying to imagine a beard on the man’s face.  It looked…. huh.  Familiar.

“Or were you the next step down— mall Santa?”  He has to have seen this guy before.  With a beard.  Fuck, this was going to plague him all night.

“No.”  The man's answer is firm, and, honestly, Jamie’s not sure which question it’s for.

“Is this… the Santa question or the mum-slash-girlfriend question?  Or the mall Santa one?”  Jamie frowns.  Was that all of them?

Santa rubs his face with both hands with a sigh.  “How much longer are you going to be here?  I was going to close an hour ago, but then you put your card on tap.”

Jamie frowns and lays his head back down on the bar.  “You probably got a family to get back to, huh?  Already someone’s mum and girlfriend.”

Santa doesn’t respond again, just sighs and pours a whiskey sour for himself, resigned.

“You have half an hour to sober up, then I’m booting you out on the street.

Jamie smiles and grabs a handful of peanuts.  “Hope you figure out if you wanna be my mum in the next half hour, then.”

Santa knocks back his drink, then makes another.  “I definitely don’t,” he says.  “At this point I just want you to leave and never come back.”

Jamie laughs and chokes on a peanut.  “You know what they say about giving punks orders, yeah?”

Santa stares at him with a raised brow.  

“It’s… uh… orders are dumb.  Basically.  Gonna do the opposite,” Jamie grins winningly from where he’s slumped on the bar.  He’s fucking delightful and he  _ knows _ it.  Especially after so much whiskey.  He’s got to be smooth as shit right now.

“Uh-huh.  Then stay here all night and keep me company,” Santa says, a small smile at the corners of his lips.  Maybe.  Jamie’s vision was pretty swimmy.

Jamie grins and pulls the bowl of peanuts closer, eating them one by one instead of using handfuls now, staying slumped down on the bar.  “If you insist, mate!”

“I hate you.  Get your shit and get out,” Santa says, setting his glass down hard and beginning to walk down to the end of the bar.

Jamie struggles upright, then trips over himself in his drunken haste and ends up busting his chin open on the wooden floor.  “Ow… fuck…” Sobriety follows the sharp, jarring pain of the fall, and the last few hours sitting at the bar have been abruptly wasted.

Big, strong hands wrap around his upper arms and drag him to his feet.  “I’m going, I’m going!” Jamie says loudly, but the hands direct him back onto the bar seat and firmly push a rag to his chin.  “Hold this,” Santa orders him.

Jamie complies and then feels a glass held to his lips.

“Drink some more water.”

Jamie takes a drink, then clears his throat.  “You choose mum, then?”

“I’m charging you for this,” Santa tells him.

Jamie laughs and slaps his stump on Santa’s shoulder companionably.  He doesn’t flinch away or look surprised, just drags the peanuts closer and turns Jamie around to lean against the bar instead of him.  It warms Jamie up more than any of the whiskey he’d drunk earlier.

“Still,” Jamie says, supporting the rag with his stump and reaching for the peanuts.  “Thought you were gonna throw me out.”

“Still going to.  Once you can fucking walk,” Santa says firmly. 

Jamie laughs and reluctantly takes a sip of water, grimacing.  “This’s disgusting.”

“You’re drinking another one,” Santa informs him as he starts putting shit away.

Jamie hums and eats a few more nuts.

He makes it through the initial glass with enough gagging and complaining to make a five-year-old proud, and he’s halfway through his second glass of water when Santa slaps his credit card bill in front of him.

Jamie studiously ignores the amount, feeling a tad guilty about keeping the bartender from his family.  Just because Jamie doesn’t have anyone anymore, doesn’t mean Santa had to miss being with Mr. or Mrs. Claus.  And besides, he’s run up way worse tabs than— nope, not looking.  Can’t be worse than the last time he went to Brisbane.  He scribbles his name on the signature line, then cheekily draws his signature, toothy smiley face and writes his number next to it.

When Santa sees the number, he rolls his eyes and shoves the receipt in the till, then presses a few buttons and the screens go blank.

Jamie sighs and plays with the water glass rather than drinking it.  Santa has somewhere to go, and  _ he’s _ alone for another Christmas night.

“Drink the rest of your water and eat a few more peanuts,” Santa says firmly, when he notices Jamie staring off into space.

Jamie jumps and the glass falls out of his hand.  It spills and he feels like absolute shit when Santa sighs and grabs a rag.

“Sorry, I— I’m good.  I’m gonna…” Jamie stands unsteadily and jolts toward the door.  He doesn’t feel comfortable here anymore.  

Santa says something behind him, but Jamie keeps moving, out of the bar and into the warm December night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got dumped last week so i’ve went out clubbing on christmas night and you’re the bartender dressed as a sexy santa who clearly hates their job and does not know what to do when i come back for a thirteenth shot and start crying on the bar AU


	3. Chapter 3

**12/25/2017 1:55 AM**

Mako flexes his hand gingerly.  His knuckles aren’t bleeding anymore, but they still sting from slamming into his cell wall a few times.

He doesn’t belong here.  He can’t stay here.  It’s so cloying that he’s worried he might have an asthma attack.  Everything that he has built over the last ten years feels like it’s falling down around him.

“Alright, Rutledge...  bail is set at $10,000.  You can use your cellphone for one phone call.  If they don’t pick up, you’re spending the night here, so be mindful of that.”

Mako looks up to see the officer who brought him in.  He tries to ease up his glower, but he can’t help it.  He fucking  _ hates _ cops.

“I didn’t do anything,” Mako says firmly.  

“That’s for the court to decide, mate.”  The officer shrugs and wiggles Mako’s phone between his thumb and forefinger.  “Want to make your call?”

Mako’s steps forward, his mind racing.  Who can he call?  Who the fuck is going to be up at two in the morning and who the fuck is going to put up ten grand for his dumb ass? 

He could levy the bar.

His stomach twists at the thought, but it’s all he has that could possibly get him out of this shithole.

Once he has his phone, he tries to take his time with it, scrolling through his contacts a few times.  The cop starts tapping the bars of Mako’s cell insistently and then keeps on tapping.  Mako does his very best not to shoot the cop a glare before clearing his throat and stealthily sending a mass text message to every fucking contact he has.

_ You up? _

If he had more time, he might have been able to get something more to the point across.

“You’ve got ten seconds to put the phone to your ear or I’m going to confiscate it,” the officer says.

Mako bites back on a, “like to see you try,” and acts like he’s still scrolling.

He doesn’t realize how much he sounded like a twat in his text until he receives several rapid fire text messages from someone named “Christmas Punk.”  There’s a lot of winking smileys and a few photo notifications, but Mako calls him as soon as he receives the third message, making a pointed motion to the jail guard that he was about to talk to someone.

“ ‘ello there, lovely; how can I make your night?”  

Why did Mako have this asshole in his phone?

“Cut the crap and listen to me,” Mako says, then immediately regrets it.  What if he just hung up?  He was obviously expecting a woman.   _ You up? _ What kind of a fucking idiot sends 24 people that kind of text at two in the morning?

There’s a pause, and then the man lets out an honest to god giggle.

“Oh, I know that voice.  You’re the… fuck, I’ve got it… tip of me tongue— booze, big bastard—bartender! You’re the bartender!”

“Probably. Listen—“

“Never thought you’d call me after all that, mate.  Blasted out of my mind, I was.”

The guard holds up four fingers and he’s looking at his watch.

“Shut. Up.  I’m in jail.” Mako’s voice is clipped, and he can feel his heart racing.  He has to get out of here.  He has to make this call count.

“Go to my bar, it’s still unlocked.  Under the cash register is a magnet key.  Take it, go into the back of the bar and under a case of Jameson is a safe.  Unlock the safe and take the red envelope out.  Take it to a bail bondsman and trade it as collateral for ten grand and come get me out, I’ll text you the address and make it worth your while, just come get me the fuck out of here.”  Mako hasn’t said so many words at once in years, and he started to feel nauseous about halfway through because he knew that he was just vomiting words but he couldn’t stop himself because he  _ has to get out _ .

“Sure, right, ah… let me get a pen and paper.”

“Time’s up, Rutledge,” the guard says.

“No- shit, give me another minute, he’s getting a pen—“ Mako’s spirits are rising and falling and he’s  pretty sure he’s  going to have a heart attack if shit keeps going sideways like this.

“Text him the address and hang up.  You told him what he needs to do, now give me the phone and let me get on about my business,” the officer says sternly.

It takes every ounce of Mako’s self control not to deck the officer.  When he goes to his text messages, he sees… holy shit.  There are abs that look like they are cut out of a rock and hip bones that don’t look humanly possible.  Mako swallows and feels his face burning.  Holy shit.  He wants to scroll up for the other pictures, but the officer is putting his key in the lock and he hastily texts the address and says, “I have to go.  Key under register, safe under Jameson.  Bond.  Reward.  Now.”  Then he hangs up and hands the phone back to the guard, his face still burning.

As soon as the guard walks away, Mako resumes pacing and tries to blatantly ignore the fucking near-nudes now in his phone.

He tries to remember where he got that number.  “Christmas Punk” doesn’t sound like someone he’d socialize with.  Fuck.

Ten minutes later, Mako realizes that he hadn’t even given the guy his name.  He feels panic crash over him.  The walls start to move in and he stops pacing to sit on the bed.  Mako puts his head between his knees, or as close as he can get, and takes deep breaths.  He isn’t going back to prison.  He isn’t going to waste another eight years of his life.  He is going to be fine.  Fine.  Just fine.

It’s 4am by the time Mako hears any movement from outside his cell.

There are boots on concrete, and then keys jingling.

Mako stands too quickly and has to put his hand out on the wall to steady himself.

A different guard stops at his cell door and unlocks it.  “Alright, your mate’s here.  Right freak, that one.  But if he’s reliable enough to come get you out of lock up, who am I to judge, eh?”

Mako grunts in reply and gratefully steps out of the cell.  He feels like there’s so much room already.  He can’t wait to get through the front door.  He’s never going inside a building again.

He still doesn’t know who the fuck “Christmas Punk” is or how he feels about the pictures now on his phone, but he figures if the guy was willing to come bust him out at shit o’clock in the morning, he deserves free liquor for the rest of his life.

When Mako exits the door leading back to the cells and into the jail’s waiting room, he recognizes Christmas Punk immediately.

“Santa!” The young man says joyfully, bouncing to his feet—well, foot and peg leg—he stands and walks over with his hand outstretched.  “Nice seein’ you again, how’s the bar? Well, guess I would know better than you— looks like you threw a rager last night.”

Mako glances at the guard and raises his brow.  “I need to sign anything?”

“Nope, paperwork’s good, here’s your court appearance and effects,” the guard says, motioning to a plastic bin with Mako’s wallet, cell phone, keys and a piece of paper with a block of text on it. “Don’t lose that or you’ll get a warrant.”  As Mako stuffs his shit back into his pockets, the guard sits down behind the desk and picks a book back up.

Mako stuffs the paper in his pocket and then reluctantly turns back to Christmas Punk waiting with a massive grin and bright green and red hair.  The sides were shaved and there was a star carved into the left side of his hair.  His piercings match, bright red studs and rings. He’s tall by normal people’s standards, but Mako’s over two meters himself and the man’s face barely clears his chest.  He’s rail thin and has as many holes in his tight jeans as he has rings in his face, showing strong thighs and the scars and connection point on his peg leg.

“Thanks,” Mako tells him, not really sure how to move forward.

“Y’welcome.  Wasn’t exactly in the middle of anything, y’know?”  Christmas Punk clears his throat and extends his left hand.  “Jamison Fawkes!  Pleasure to meet you again, Santa.”  

Mako offers his right hand out of habit, and then his eyes bounce to Jamison’s right arm when something feels wrong about the gesture— there’s a left hand offered to him— and then he remembers at the same time he sees that Jamison’s right arm ends in a stump.  Below his elbow there is a flaming tattoo covering the scarring and twining up what’s left of his forearm. The cleverness of it makes Mako smile, and he awkwardly snorts when Jamison holds out his stump faster than Mako can bring his left hand up.

“Forgot, huh?” Jamison looks delighted.

“Yeah…” Mako rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat before taking a step toward the door.

The movement snaps the brief tension and Jamison springs to life.

“S’alright, I forget shit all the time!” He starts moving, walking right next to Mako all the way to the door, then he opens and holds it for Mako.  “Was really surprised to hear from you— never thought you’d actually keep my number!” He laughs and it’s a high, braying thing.

Mako reminds himself that it’s worth not being in a cell.

Once they’re outside, Mako stops and Jamison walks right past him, still… chatting.

Mako takes a deep breath of the warm, humid air.  Freedom.  Fucking freedom.

He tunes back in just in time to hear Jamison ask him if he’s got plans for Christmas.

“Putting my bar back together, I guess,” Mako says with a shrug.  He doesn’t follow Jamison out toward the parking lot, fully planning on getting a cab home once he’s left.

Jamison looks back at him and raises a blonde eyebrow tinged with green dye.  He looks ridiculous.  From his hair to his bright orange prosthesis and holey jeans.

That picture of his abs and hips flashes in Mako’s mind and any breath he had regained from being outside the station leaves his lungs.

“Want a ride back? I can give you a hand—“

“I’m good,” Mako says, remembering all the emotional bullshit from the previous year.  He didn’t want to deal with any of that shit.

Jamison’s face falls and he opens his mouth to speak, but Mako cuts him off.

“Listen, I appreciate this,” Mako tells him, waving his hand in the air to get him to hold up.  “You can get free booze at my bar for the rest of your life or something, but I’m not looking for a mate,” he concludes.  

Jamison licks his lips and takes a deep breath.  “Yeah,” he says, sighing and rubbing his palm on his thin t-shirt.  “Right, I get it.”  He chews on his lip, then his entire countenance suddenly changes and he grins again.  “Well, have a good one.  Happy Christmas and all ‘at, Santa.”

“Happy Christmas,” Mako says, feeling miserable for some reason.  He didn’t want a friend out of this.  

He didn’t want the drama of a relationship with an over-emotional punk.

It isn’t until Jamison has driven off that he realizes he never actually told him his name.

He takes his phone out and pulls up the other man’s contact information.  He scrolls down to the delete option, then back up to change his name from Christmas Punk to Jamison.

What a weird name for someone with that lifestyle.

 

Mako doesn’t start putting his bar back together.  Instead, he starts drinking and thinking, enjoying his freedom on the roof of his bar. His bar that might get taken from him if the court screws him like the police had.

 

He hears the hatch leading back down into the bar open, and takes a deep breath before sighing and turning his head.  Mako didn’t exactly have anything to be afraid of.  He could rip apart anyone who came to assault him with his bare hands.

 

“You blow me off so you could drink alone on top of a trashed bar?” Jamison asks, hobbling forward.

 

Mako grunts in response.

 

“Mind if I sit?” Jamison asks, dropping a backpack on the roof.

 

Mako grunts again, and motions to the second lounge chair.

 

Jamison drags it closer and then plops into it with a sigh that turns into a yawn.

 

“What time is it?” Mako asks.

 

“‘Round five.  Sun should be up soon,” Jamison says, stretching.

 

Mako glances at him and sees a flash of abs.  Hip bones.  A tuft of blonde hair he hadn’t noticed before.  When he brings his eyes up to Jamie’s face, the younger man is grinning.

 

“ _ What _ ?” Mako asks defensively.

 

Jamison cackles and then grabs the backpack.  He digs around in it before coming up with a manila folder and hands it over.  “All the info on your bail shit, Mr. Mako Root-ledge.  If you need a character witness, I’m here for you, mate.  Don’t think you did what they said you did!”

 

Mako snorts and lets the folder hit the roof.  “Thanks.” He takes a sip of liquor, then glances at Jamison.  “You know why I was in there?”

 

“Probably assault, yeah? ‘Least, ten grand is what I usually have when I knock a bloke out,” Jamison shrugs and puts his hands behind his head.  “I just stay in, though.  Coppers want to cut their retention rates, they’ll let me out when they’re ready and tired of having a cripple with decent behavior.”

 

“ ‘Decent?’ ” Mako snorts.  Nothing about Jamison looked “decent.”  Well.  Except for how bloody hot he was.

 

“Can’t get out on good behavior because it would ruin my rep!” Jamison insists.  

 

“Sure.”  Mako’s still chuckling.  He feels like he hasn’t had a genuine laugh in a while. He should drink up here more often.

 

Silence settles between them.  Or, a relative silence, since Jamison apparently can’t stay still.  The chair he’s on creaks with his jiggling leg and his hand is never still, picking at the plastic bindings and tapping at the metal poles supporting the thing.

 

“You actually going to do anything tonight for Christmas?” Jamison asks as the world around them starts to color.

 

“I won’t have it all cleaned up in time to open,” Mako says wearily.  

 

“Then how about I help and you come to a Christmas Party with me? You’re already resigned to not being open tonight!”  Jamison is grinning at him when Mako turns his head to look at him.

 

Mako feels his mouth spreading in a smile.  This guy is annoying as fuck, but something in the exuberance and attitude he has just makes Mako want to humor him.  He remembers how delighted he had been at the police station, excited to reintroduce Mako to his lost limbs.

 

Jamison took what happened to him and made it his own.

 

“Yeah,” Mako says.  “Sounds nice.”

 

Jamison grins and stretches again with a wink.

 

Mako rolls his eyes and looks back up at the lightening sky.

 

With Jamison’s help, he had gotten his bar mostly back in order.  It still smelled like shitty beer layered with a few different types of liquor, but it was a bar.  Mako figures it’ll lend more authenticity to the place if anything.

 

Jamison left to sleep for a few hours and “get ready,” whatever that meant, and had given Mako the address the party was at.

 

That night, Mako has on his old cut in an effort to blend into the type of crowd he suspects Jamie runs with.  It fits like an old shoe, and he might start wearing it again.  The smell of the leather brings back memories from when he was a part of Talon--the European motorcycle club whose activities had given Mako his first run of prison.  He took the spacers out of his body piercings and replaced them with steel for the first time in nearly a year, and he was wearing his cleanest t-shirt.

 

He keeps reminding himself that this isn’t a date, but every choice feels like a genuine effort and he keeps finding himself circling back to Jamison and his possible likes.

 

Keeps circling back to those pictures still in his text messages.

 

The party is noisy, not just in the sense that it’s loud, but there are a lot of moving, flashing lights and a lot of people who are having a good time. 

 

Mako looks for a beer as soon as possible, hoping that the lights, music and booze will help him with his sanity.  He finds, to his surprise, buttered rum and eggnog are the alcoholic offerings.  There’s also a wide variety of people attending the party.

 

He sees several people in the more eclectic styles: heavy metal and punk, but there are a surprising number of guests he would consider normal too.  It’s an interesting mix, and half of the punks have some variation of Jamison’s hair, so he waits by the booze and figures the other man will find him. 

 

He hears his name over the music and turns to see Jamison with one of the plastic mugs of eggnog, already looking like he’s had several.  Mako doesn’t know how he walks straight sober with how uneven his gait looks, but even a few drinks in, the only sign he’s already gotten started is the glazed look in his eyes and the loose smile on his lips.

 

“Nice vest!  Looks real authentic,” Jamison’s says, setting his mug down on the table and reaching out to touch the soft, supple leather and finger the patches.  He whistles when he sees that they’re carefully stitched on, and traces the curve of the wicked looking hook that underlines Mako’s motorcycle club nickname on his right breast.

 

“ ‘Roadhog,’ huh?” Jamison grins and his thumb brushes over the name patch.  He does the same with the rank patches on his left breast.  Original.  Enforcer. Europe. They are a particular shade of gray, the result of a decade of wear and tear. There is one patch that was nearly pristine: Dead.

 

Jamison’s fingers pause on that one before his hand drops to his side and he grabs his cup again.  “Real neat.  You’ll have to tell me about what they all mean sometime, yeah?” Jamison says as he gets more eggnog from a punch bowl.

 

Mako grunts and reaches past him for a buttered rum.  It’s still warm, and and it tastes wonderful.

 

“Whose party is this again?” Mako asks, looking around the inside of the house a little more closely.  It was larger than it looked in the dark and filled with bodies.  He doesn’t know if this is where Jamison lives or if they’re crashing a party.

 

“Come meet Hana!” Jamison says enthusiastically.  He drains his eggnog in one go and sets the mug down before grabbing Mako’s wrist and proceeding to drag him through the crowd.

 

“Hana!”  Mako sees a lot of people in front of them and any one of them could be the person Jamison was calling for.  He doesn’t expect the smallest, cutest girl he has ever seen to look up and give Jamison a genuine smile.  “This is the Santa I was telling you about!”  Jamison says, getting closer than Mako would ever expect for her to be comfortable with.

 

Hana turns her smile on Mako and stands from the couch she had been sitting on.  He almost misses her offering her hand—she seems even smaller standing.  How is that possible?

 

Jamison releases Mako’s wrist so that he can shake her hand, then circles around behind him and starts touching the patches on back of his cut, appearing to think they’re getting on just great without him.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Mako says, his hand dwarfing Hana’s.  She doesn’t seem to mind or notice and gives his knuckle a squeeze the best she can.

 

“Happy Christmas!” Hana says brightly.  “Great now I’m starting to sound Australian too,” she makes a face and it’s unbearably cute.

 

“Happy Christmas,” Mako says, smiling.

 

“Jamie hasn’t shut up about you,” she tells him, prompting a squawk from Jamison—Jamie? No, they aren’t there yet; Mako is still convincing himself he doesn’t want them to be— and the apparent libel drags him back around to smack his hand over her mouth.  Hana falls back on the couch with Jamison and slaps him in the chest for his manic behavior.

 

“She’s an actress! She’s acting!” he says.  Mako can’t tell if he’s blushing because of the flashing lights, but the insinuation widens his smile.  He wonders what Jamison’s been saying if he’s flipping out like a teenage girl.

 

“Yeah?” he asks. “Better be all good shit or I’ll revoke his free booze.”

 

Hana laughs behind Jamison’s hand, and drags it down and across her with some effort.  Jamie groans and rests his forehead against her shoulder, probably to keep all the spikes and studs in his nose and mouth from catching on her blouse.

 

“He’s already had a few drinks, he’s fun to tease when he’s like this,” she tells Mako with a wink.

 

“Yeah, she’s just teasing,” Jamison says.

 

Hana rolls her eyes and shoves at Jamie.  “Go entertain your date, dummy,” she says and he makes that high, unhappy noise again, followed by a series of broken phrases that Mako interprets as him denying that they were on any sort of date.

 

If he was going to be drunk the whole night, it wouldn’t be much of a good date.  Not the kind that ended in Jamison stretched out somewhere and Mako’s hands—

 

“I’m going to grab another drink,” Mako says, turning abruptly and heading back the way they had come.

 

He doesn’t hear Jamison coming after him until they’re at the drink table again.

 

“I’m sorry that was weird! It was a weird, right?  Not just me? Pretty weird?”  Jamison asks, his green-tinged blonde brows furrowed.

 

“A little weird,” Mako admits.

 

Jamison nods and starts sipping a buttered rum.  “Real weird,” Jamison says, then licks the drink off his top lip.  “You… ah… want me to stick around?  Hang with you or…?”

 

Mako raises a brow and leans closer so that he doesn’t have to yell over the loud new song that just came on.  “I just said it was weird, not bad,” he says.

 

Jamison lights up like a Christmas tree and downs his buttered rum before refilling it and beginning to walk off.  “Come with me, then!  I’m friends with most everyone here!”

 

Mako immediately regrets not being able to just sit on a chair and enjoy the music and booze.

 

Jamison was  _ not _ friends with most everyone there.  It was clear to Mako that most of the friends at this party were Hana’s, but Jamison acted like every single one of them was a pal. It was frustratingly endearing.

 

Jamie left Mako with Hana once they had made an entire circuit of the ground floor of the house, promising to return with three drinks.

 

“How?” Mako asks, once Jamie is gone. 

 

“Hm?” Hana asks, lying upside down on the couch and playing with a hand-held gaming system.

 

“Three drinks with one hand?”  Mako asks, suddenly feeling like he was asking a question he shouldn’t have.

 

“He’s a smart cookie,” Hana tells Mako, not seeming to notice or care if it was inappropriate.

 

“Uh-huh,” Mako looks back out at the crowd and suddenly feels exhausted.  He had met too many people, been too energized by Jamie, said too many “Happy Christmas’s.”  Now that Jamie’s gone, he feels like he’s aged ten years. 

 

Hana suddenly sits up and crosses her legs beside Mako.  “Did he introduce you to his ex?” She asks, her eyes moving to the doorway Jamie disappeared through.

 

“His ex?” Mako remembers the sad sack of shit that had kept his bar open after close last year.

 

Was he at this party too?

 

Hana nods and her eyes move around the room.  They stop and she scoots closer to Mako, pointing in his line of sight to a short, well built young man with bright green hair, narrow eyes and a smile that could charm anyone or anything.  “We’re all friends, but I know Jamie is still recovering from their fallout.  I’m glad he brought you.”

 

The man might be the only person Jamie hadn’t introduced Mako to.

 

“Yeah?  I didn’t meet him,” Mako says.

 

Hana shrugs and settles back into the couch, still sitting uncomfortably close to Mako.  She reminds him of one of the ladies from Talon.  Cute and fierce and unafraid of men four times her size.

 

“They don’t talk much anymore,” she admits, then she straightens up and holds out her hands for a warm mug that Jamie hands her.

 

Jamie has an eggnog cradled on his stump and he’s managed to bring two mugs of buttered rum in his left hand.  He hands the second one to Mako, then sits on the arm rest when there isn’t room for him beside Mako.

 

Mako shifts closer to Hana, and though it’s still not really enough space, Jamie slides his narrow ass into it, pressed right against Mako’s side and laughing when he spills a little eggnog on his shirt.  He brings the cloth up to suck at the mess, then sets his drink to the side and stands back up.

 

“Jamie, what are you doing?” Hana asks, watching him shed his jacket and then drag his t-shirt up over his head.

 

“I spilled,” Jamie says, like it’s the most obvious answer.  

 

“If you’re going to strip at least make it a show,” Hana says, nudging Mako with her elbow.  “Right?”

 

Mako sits stone-faced and with his drink half-raised to his mouth.  This isn’t happening.

 

Jamie laughs and drags his t-shirt the rest of the way off.  He has a singlet underneath, so Mako allows himself a weak chuckle.  Jamie must take it as encouragement.  Or the next song is something he likes to dance to.  Maybe the alcohol finally culminates.

 

Something causes him to swing his hips and step up on the coffee table, making him even taller; more obvious in a room where he and Mako are outliers who shouldn’t be counted.

 

Hana laughs joyfully next to Mako and shouts encouragement that falls deaf on Mako’s ears.  Jamie continues to move.  He starts touching himself, running his hand down his body— Mako can  _ see  _ his muscles through the thin singlet, and as soon as the hand reaches his waist, it fiddles with his belt buckle.

 

Hana whistles and a crowd is gathering, but Jamie is only watching Mako.

 

Mako tries his best to figure out what the fuck is going on inside his brain.  He feels like he’s having an out of body experience.  Watching himself watch a hot twenty-something with bright hair, silly tattoos and more piercings than Mako could count before he had to blink.

 

He can’t deny he’s fucking enjoying himself.  Years ago, he would have scooped Jamie up and found a room as soon as he’d swung his hips.

 

But Jamie is very drunk.

 

The belt hits the floor and Jamie’s jeans, tight as they are, slip just enough to convince Mako he isn’t wearing underwear.

 

Jamie is very drunk and staring at Mako like no one has in quite some time.

 

Hana throws a few small bills at Jamie and several others join her, raining ones and fives and some change onto the coffee table as Jamie moves to the song and pops the button on his pants.

 

The crowd starts chanting for him to take his other shirt off, and the pants slip again, nearly baring the end of Jamie’s thick trail of blonde hair that leads into his pants.  He’s saying words that Mako can’t hear.  Maybe he’s singing with the song.

 

Mako wonders if he’s having a heart attack.  Maybe.  It’s about time for one, isn’t it?  He’s been abusing his body for nearly fifty years. His heart has to give out sometime.

 

Jamie brings his singlet up with his hand, doing it slowly and from the bottom of the front instead of pulling it over his head from the back.  It’s not important until he goes to pull it over his head and the material catches on his piercings.  Jamie struggles against it with a disappointed noise and the entire party erupts in cheers and laughter.

 

Hana giggles beside Mako, then leans in and says, “I think he needs help.” 

 

Mako’s eyes break away from Jamie’s slowly slipping pants to his predicament with his shirt.  He takes a steadying breath and stands, silencing nearly everyone within three bodies deep around them, though a few people are still throwing dollar bills.  Mako holds Jamie still with one hand and carefully pulls his shirt away and off of his piercings before letting it drop back to his waist.  There’s a few cheers and a lot of laughter.  The crowd is dispersing as Mako stands there, Jamie above his height with the coffee table and his pants still slowly slipping down his ass.

 

Mako rests his hands on Jamie’s hips.  Jamie’s eyes are half lidded and he’s leaning down, closer to Mako’s face.

 

Mako drags Jamie’s pants back up firmly and there’s a collective “aw man” from those still watching. It turns Mako’s attention back to the party and he can see Jamie’s ex watching from across the room.

 

Mako snorts and tosses Jamie over his shoulder, getting a cackle from him and a laugh from Hana and the rest of the party.

 

“You got rooms upstairs?” Mako asks, his face burning.

 

Hana nods and points him in the direction he had seen stairs in at one point.  They are blocked with a sign that says “don’t you fucking dare,” and he just steps over it, still toting Jamie over his shoulder.

 

“Y’know, fireman carry is kind of hot,” Jamie says as Mako starts opening doors.  He’s trying to find a room with a bed.

 

It’s the first thing Mako has been able to process since his blood started rushing every which way when Jamie first stepped up on the table.

 

“I’m not taking you up here to fuck,” Mako says firmly.  He isn’t.  He isn’t.  No matter how much he wants to.  Jamie is clearly very drunk.  It would be a very bad idea.

 

Very bad.

 

Jamie whines and sags against Mako’s back.  “I wanna,” might be whinged against his back, but he’s not entirely sure.

 

“Sleep it off a little and we can… talk,” Mako says, hating how much he wants to be an irresponsible piece of shit.  Twenty years ago, he would have fucked him on the coffee table and expected the rest of the party to leave the room if they weren’t interested in watching.

 

Jamie perks up a little at that, and starts smacking Mako’s ass with his stump.  “Talking! I love that!” He says, laughing with every slap.

 

Mako finally finds a bedroom and shoulders his way in.  He drops Jamie on the bed and stares down at him, his resolve crumbling as the younger man stretches out on the bed, a grin spreading his mouth and his tongue poking between his gold-capped teeth teasingly.

 

Mako reaches for him, and Jamie arches into his hands.  All Mako does is shift him to lie on the bed properly before lying down beside him and dragging Jamie against his chest.  He makes sure that Jamie’s left hand is pinned to his side so that he doesn’t try to harass Mako or investigate the bulge pressing against his hip.

 

“How long do I have to sleep before we can ‘talk’?’ “ Jamie asks, wiggling in Mako’s grip, testing it.

 

“Until I’m sure you’re not ‘showing off in front of my ex and strip teasing for my new friend drunk,’ “ Mako replies.

 

“What? I do that every year! Christmas tradition!  Happy Christmas and all ‘at.”

 

Mako grunts and closes his eyes.

 

Something wet and smelling of alcohol touches his lips, and Mako opens his eyes to see Jamie’s eyes watching him, waiting for a reaction.

 

Well.  This can’t hurt.

 

Mako presses his lips against Jamie’s in return, and the giggle that vibrates between them nearly tastes sweet when Mako slides his tongue against Jamie’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the prompt on the first part of this one so much that it honestly doesn't warrant mentioning the source. Anyway, Mako gets arrested on Christmas Eve and has a Bad Time. 
> 
> The second half was from: “you’ve had too much egg nog and rum and now you’re drunk and doing a strip tease for everyone at this Christmas party, it isn’t sexy in the slightest because you’re giggling and your sweater is caught over your head but I’m still falling in love with you” au
> 
> These started out as two separate parts but I think they work better together.
> 
> Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Character A and Character B meet in the ER on Christmas Eve.


End file.
